I was a huge fan of the counseling centre at my high school. I buddied up with the weary and over-booked guidance counselors, and alternated between my roles as a student with issues to a student who was freakishly empathetic and could usually relate to their weariness and heart-aches. I could often be found there in those counseling offices, instead of in class and even instead of with my friends during lunch and nutrition break. It was a soothing, quiet, comfortable place, as burdened as the atmosphere was with the troubles of hormonal teenagers. After I graduated I realized that counseling costs a pretty penny in the real world, and as much as I would have loved to have a safe place in which to pour my heart out to professionals, my empty wallet didn't allow for that luxury.
In 2006 one of my best friends gently talked me into going back to counseling after suspecting that things were worse than she thought on the whole bulimia front. It's not that I was resistant, but I was afraid of being labeled forever as a failure of some sort; someone who couldn't stand on her own two feet. I don't know what had changed for me, where this prejudice had come from, especially considering how gung-ho I had been about counseling in the past. Nevertheless, off I went, 20 years old and in real, live counseling for what felt like the first time. My counselor, who I will call Julia, was really, really young. The reason I could afford her was because she was a student at Trinity Western University with ACTS Seminary and charged at a discount rate since she was technically still learning. Julia and I spent a few weeks scratching at the surface of some basic struggles; valid yet mediocre issues that we needed to get out of the way.
It was probably about 3 weeks into my time in counseling that the subject of my biological father came up. There was so, so, so much to sort through where he was concerned, and I didn't know where to begin. Julia and I began by making a family tree and she helped me put members of my family in their respective places. There was one weird thing that came up, though: to save my life I could not think of the names of my paternal aunts and uncles or my grandparents, and I did not (do not) even know how many cousins I have. When I looked blankly at Julia she asked me if this surprised me, and I said yes. I guess I felt this huge void in that moment, this crazy feeling of detachment and distance from the very people I share a blood line with. Julia started to dig a little deeper, and whether it was her intention or not, I began to feel like half an orphan. It made me angry and sad and confused all at the same time.
For the record, my dad and I were fairly close for most of my life. Sunday was "dad day" and he bought me toys and we went for bike rides and stuff like that, and there were some happy times in the mix of divorce and custody and child support and fear. It wasn't until I kind of "grew out" of dad day and started forming my own ideas and perceptions that it occured to me that we were not at close as I thought. I have always known that my father loved (loves?) me, which is more than some kids can say. But in the moments where I desperately longed for a daddy to shelter and protect his little girl, I felt a loss. There was so much inconsistency and disappointment in our relationship that it caused a lot of distrust between us and I always set us both up for failure: Neither of us could seem to come through for the other. He was always late (if he even showed up), and I was always too chubby. I was super, duper sensitive, so when I would sing along to the radio and he would turn up the volume, I automatically projected that as him believing I had a terrible singing voice. I thought he was embarrassed of me.
Coming back to counseling and Julia, she would send me away at the end of each session with homework to think about. One week the task she set in front of me was both daunting and exciting all at the same time. She simply asked me to write this man a letter. The man who I both adored and feared. It started with your basic 3 point essay: thesis, intro, p1, p2, p3, conclusion, and was actually a lot of fun. The Letter grew and grew until it was probably about 6 pages long and it was stuffed full of what I consider grace. There were memories in The Letter, both good and bad, as well as deeply rooted thoughts and emotions. The most important part, though, was where I forgave him. My father never beat me or abused me the way some kids go through, and I do believe he loved me the best he could, but there were still things that needed to be forgiven and I felt good letting go of those things. The Letter brought about freedom, and not just for me. When I read it to my mom and younger brother they both cried their eyes out and I think it helped them. Here is the thing, though: that letter was supposed to be a healing exercise and that is it. It was never my intention to send it to him. But I did. And I still to this day honestly don't know whether that was a good choice or bad.
The Letter was mailed in July 2006. At that point I hadn't spoken to my father in well over a year. The silence continued until that September when a letter arrived via Express Post to my mom's house. It was from him. His Letter was pretty brutal. He was mad. Really, really mad. It stated, "[...] I can only hope that the Jesus you claim to know is more forgiving and understanding than you [...] Have a nice life [...] From, Asshole". There were other things in his letter not worth repeating. I was embarrassed for pouring my heart out to him and receiving such a harsh reply, but I didn't cry. Instead, the binge/purge cycle intensified as I desperately clung to the hope that I am loved. I am loved. I am loved.
I never heard from that man again. Ironically, I will miss him until the day I die.
It took me a long, long time to stop throwing myself under the bus and reliving the repercussions of The Letter(s). I don't know what percentage of the times I over-ate and then puked were due to him, and my intention is not to blame him in any way. I am 100% responsible for my choices and behavior, and I am thankful that I even had a father to give me life and care for my needs for so many years. But it makes me think: would it have been better to have been raised solely by Mom and Gramma? Would I still have struggled through half a decade with an eating disorder had it not been for this man? I wrote this post not only for you readers this time, but also as a way to evaluate the situation. It's been awhile since I visited this topic.
So counseling sure opens a can of worms as you can see. The crazy thing is that over the course of 3 or 4 months in counseling, bulimia did not come up even once! Oh, denial. My time with Julia was only the beginning of a long road to self-discovery, healing and mistakes. But I guess in the end I don't regret writing/sending The Letter. I have to trust that my Daddy (in my heart) knows best and has orchestrated this all for the sake of healing and peace. And I have certainly got my share of love. Yes I do.
~C~
